QotD: You've written a hit musical! How will you avoid having fame go to your head?

Papa was a mighty sailing man. Alas, he lost his commission after leading a boatload of tourists astray. Mama was delighted to have him home fulltime—it wasn’t easy raising twins alone. After a couple of weeks of fore and aft, starboard and port, the excitement died down. Maybe it was simply his refusal to swab the decks, it being beneath his station. Like Mama, he was a twin. He and his double were named Beans and Bacon, Mama and her brother were Whistle and Dixie, neither of which was quite as bad as their mother and her sister received: Penance and Prayer. Maybe Fame and Fortune wasn’t all that bad.

Fame and I shared everything. That’s what twins did. Our identical outfits weren’t, after the first wearing. Everyone and everything was attracted to Fame, including the splashable and spillable, and she had a habit of grabbing my things once she’d messed up her own. She could kick loose the blankets in thirty seconds, roll twice, grabbing my pillow and leaving me a stray corner of sheet and a square foot of mattress space. Any jerking, slapping or growling only got me dumped out of the bunk. Just getting up to pee was dangerous, leading me into a mess of stockings, bras and panties hung up to dry, wet towels on the floor, makeup splashed and spilled, shampoo bottles knocked over, water left running. You get the idea.

My complaints were lost beneath her singing, dancing, yodeling, whatever. Her smile won every heart within glimpsing range. They say if you hate getting beat, join ‘em, or something like that. I composed songs for Fame to warble, jotted one-liners for her stand-up at the bus stop, wrote plays when she wanted to shine amidst a group. Eventually I worked my way up to “Lookalike Landlubbers on Leave,” which Fame has headlined on Broadway for two years now, and is about to be made into a movie. With the fabulous wealth that is now mine, I’ve discovered my own taste in clothing and luxuriate in my very own apartment. Let Fame have the fame, I say, and I won’t begrudge her a thing as long as she keeps her messy little butt out of my completely private and thoroughly shipshape head.